


Waking in the Same Place

by teffy



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, M/M, Post-Canon, Redeemed Booker | Sebastien le Livre, sad french man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:34:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25594372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teffy/pseuds/teffy
Summary: Whatever works, you know?
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Booker | Sebastien le Livre, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 21
Kudos: 339





	Waking in the Same Place

Booker begins his exile in France. Because...of course he does. Where else could he go? It's not like home anymore. Home hasn't been a place with walls in a long time. But there is wine, no one smiles at you on the street, and the same predictable pretentious discussions permeate cafes. 

He buys art. And sells it. He has some discernible taste or maybe he's just been around long enough to know what people will spend money on, even if it's not good. He doesn't need much money to live on. His flat comes with the job of handyman and the building is full of mostly older women who are fascinated when he speaks a particular  _ patois _ that hasn't been around for at least 100 years. He flatters them and fixes their wifi and they give him slices of cherry  _ clafoutis _ hoping he'll come back for a second piece later when their husbands aren't home. 

He never does. 

Booker misses his friends all the time. For as much as he complained about their affections to one another and sappy declarations of love, he misses Joe and Nicky. He misses helping Joe with surprise gifts. They would go to small antique shops and find gaudy 20th century mini-replicas of Renaissance statues and buy them just to see Nicky's face and hear him mutter in Italian. Nicky wasn't one to be outdone and it would usually involve food. Booker liked food too. And they could bond over their hatred of westernized versions of eastern dishes. They could argue over the presence of tomatoes in modern Italian cooking. When they weren't doing a job, Booker and Nicky would cook lavish meals with multiple courses and Nicky always entrusted him with finding the wine for each course. He misses their easy affection with, not just one another, but with him too. Joe's arm slung over his shoulder as they left a pub after watching a football match where neither of their teams were playing so they drank too much and started fights. Nicky's hand brushing against his back as they moved around each other in a too small kitchen. The way they both checked in on him each morning even though he'd stopped telling them about his dreams of Quynh long ago.

And Andy. He misses Andy the most. Because, with Andy, he never had to say anything. She'd put out her hand and he'd pass her his flask for her to refill. The way the heft of her axe felt as he tossed it to her before snapping someone's neck. The other three may have been attached to weapons but that was never the case for him. He had his fists and whatever weapon was modern enough at the time. They joked about Booker's ability to put his fist through anything and after a fight his knuckles were always bloody. Andy taught him, nonetheless. She taught him how to fight and he took a little bit from here and a little bit from there and made something. Whatever works, you know? 

Whatever works. 

That was probably the reason they'd found comfort in one another. He and Andy. But it didn't diminish their friendship. Their bond. Intimacy wasn't about love anymore for Booker than it was for Andy. But it was the closeness he craved and comfort she gave. He could tumble into bed with her and she'd make him forget things for a time. That was early on though. And they didn't so much as tumble into bed together anymore as much as collapse across it until she poked at his side because he snored. 

He misses Andy the most because she's the only one in the entire world that knows how it feels. How it feels to be so alone that more time cannot even give you solace. 

*********

The first time he hears Italian being spoken since his exile he stops in the middle of the street and nearly drops his shopping bag. 

Something about hearing it like that amongst all the French being spoken is a jolt to a memory he didn’t know he had anymore. Of a time when he’d woken up in the woods on the freezing ground, tree branches pressing into his back. All he’d heard was Italian. And rapid fire Italian at that. Two men. A woman. They didn’t seem to be arguing but... _ deciding _ . 

He groaned and then heard one of them say “ _ Oh, bienvenue dans le monde _ !”

Booker learned Italian first. It was the easiest for him. The group mostly spoke Italian together, and for some reason, continued to do so for the most part whenever they were together and alone. 

Italian became associated with family.

Booker blinks himself back to the present, wipes at his face with the back of his hand, and grips tighter to the bag he’s holding. He can’t even place the people who were conversing in Italian before. He falls back into step with the rest of the pedestrians on the sidewalk.

******************

He smells the baklava before he sees it. The Lebanese family that owns the cafe next door is having a party on their patio. There is a large tray of it and they offer Booker some when they see him taking out his trash between their buildings. 

“Here.” Says the young man who works the counter and has memorized his coffee order in the morning before he even has to say it. He smiles at Booker. “Take some. There is more than enough.” 

It’s sticky and coats the white napkin he places a few pieces into, soaking through and lingering on his fingers. He goes up to the roof and eats every piece while the sun sets. 

Their group would splurge on desserts. Oh, yes Booker and Nicky were good cooks but baking? That was a different story. The more modern the world got, the more sweet things got. Artificially and overwhelmingly so. They liked simple things. Tarts. Cakes. Sweet rolls. But baklava was an  _ obsession _ . The guessing game had been going on for a while from what he could tell but there had never been any wagers on it until Booker came along. 

“It’s from a border of a country that doesn’t exist anymore. She won’t guess it.” Nicolo muttered to him as he took it out of it’s packaging and placed it in something a bit more nondescript to transport it back home.

Booker scoffed. “Of course she will. She always does.” He paused. “I will bet on it.”

Yusuf groaned from his place on the sofa, head lifting up from his sketchbook. “Oh, do not start this.”

“A bet?”

“This will never stop.”

Nicolo ignored Yusuf and tied a string neatly around the rectangular package. He turned to look back at Booker. “What would we wager?”

Booker shrugged. “Money, of course.”

“How mundane.”

Booker pursed his lips. “Well, if you are unsure of your ability to pick obscure enough baklava…” 

Nicolo narrowed his eyes at him. 

He has never lost this game. Except the one time that Andy spit the baklava out and refused to eat it and Nicky admitted to cheating and buying the baklava frozen from a grocery store. They called that one a draw. 

He isn’t an expert but he knows this baklava is good. Very good. Made with real honey, obviously. Andy would know exactly. But it’s sweet and flaky and he regrets not taking more. 

**********

The problem in dealing with art is that every so often he comes across something of Joe’s. Unsigned art is never a safe bet, especially if it’s just one piece and not attached to an artist’s estate. Most of these get labeled as being done by an ‘amateur artist’ and sold for novelty or stuck in a book and forgotten about. 

He knows it’s Joe’s sketch because of the paper. And because he remembers unintentionally posing for it. 

There are no discernable facial features so he doesn’t recognize himself in that way but the focus isn’t on his face it’s on his hand against a wine glass and the book in front of him. 

The start of Booker’s second century had found them in New York. Everyone was an immigrant there so the four of them didn’t stick out. Andromache and Nicolo were changed to Andy and Nicky. Yusuf became Joe. And he was Sebastian Booker. Joe came up with the name and was smugly proud of himself. Booker wouldn’t admit it but he liked it. 

Andy and Nicky were obsessed with melodramas and were at the theater most nights. Joe liked to sit on their tiny fire escape landing and sketch their neighborhood. Open windows in the buildings around them offered him up a perfect tableau. Booker read. He read everything he could get his hands on. He developed a particular fascination with comic books and his evenings were spent with  _ Little Nemo _ and his adventures in his dreams. 

Booker’s dreams were not adventures. They were nightmares. And he wondered what it must be like to be a carefree child during the day and to be in such fantastical places while you sleep.

He was always in the same place in his nightmares. The bottom of the ocean. Sea water filling his lungs over and over again. It will not end. It will never end…

He poured himself another glass of wine and flipped the page. 

Only then did he notice that Joe wasn’t facing out the window anymore. He was watching him.

***********

Nile sends him a phone. 

He only wonders for a moment how she knows where he is but soon realizes he’s not exactly been hiding. 

It’s a very new model and for some reason she chose to put a [ phone case  ](https://res.cloudinary.com/teepublic/image/private/s--VpXqGe_1--/c_crop,x_10,y_10/c_fit,w_460/c_crop,g_north_west,h_1100,w_554,x_-47,y_-370/l_upload:v1452885561:production:blanks:gawvl5gka1pqwssxidw5/fl_layer_apply,g_north_west,x_-408,y_-447/b_rgb:36538b/c_limit,f_jpg,h_630,q_90,w_630/v1547052743/production/designs/3923183_0.jpg) that is decorated with an image of a croissant.

Hilarious. 

She preloaded the phone with one number saved into it’s contacts. The first time he powers it on there’s already two texts from that number. The first just says  _ hey  _ and the second one was sent a few hours after the first one and it says  _ god, please tell me you know how to text unlike these ancient dipshits. why do they always call?! _

He smiles at the screen. It’s bright in his dark apartment.  _ Isn’t this against the rules? _

Surprisingly it only takes a moment for the answer to come through.  _ what rules? there are no rules for this. besides i need someone to send memes to. _

The next three texts are all images.  [ One ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/1b/26/73/1b26737fdd88bac12a8bab430c013172.jpg) is a humorous take on the french language. The second is a selfie of Nile with a bookshelf that he recognizes. He also recognizes his books. They’re in the Mexico City safehouse. The last one is a quickly snapped picture that he’s sure the three of them didn’t realize she was taking. 

Nicky is standing up behind the couch, one hand up, mid sentence. Joe is leaning against the back of the couch next to him, arms crossed, brow raised. He can tell it’s not Joe that Nicky is talking to. It’s Andy. She’s laying on the couch, pointing up at Nicky with her sunglasses in her hand. Her face is serious but he can see the curl of a grin at the corners of her mouth. The text that accompanies the picture just says.  _ they’ve been arguing about cheese for the past 30 minutes. _

The laughter bubbles up from his chest before he can stop it and it startles him. It’s loud and it mostly sounds like a sob. His eyes blur with tears until he can’t see the phone anymore and he drops it against his chest and tips his head back onto his pillow. 

**Author's Note:**

> i love one sad french man. come find me on tumblr @teffy


End file.
